Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,115

raked the righteous tip of the Sword across every rib on one side, a clean slice that oozed black blood.

He quivered with deep hatred and anger, looking around frantically for the body of the host of the Bloodstone. The one named Kim was falling like a rag doll to smack upon the welted surface of the sea, lost unless he snatched her in midair.

Worse still, she carried the precious cargo.

Squinting his eyes he searched, crazed.

There. He saw her flailing and pathetic form below him.

Growling in scalding curses, he launched himself with his great wings and then folded them to intercept her. He could not damage the body of the host; he must get under her and slow her fall gradually. He shot past her like a bullet, spread his wings, nuzzled her onto his back and then flared just above the surf.

He spread into a glide and slowed, reaching back with a claw and pulling her down to his feet where he could grasp her, look her over, ensure the precious cargo was safe.

The host was intact; in a kind of hibernation mankind called a coma now. The host was, in fact, never better. But the pink backpack was missing.

An unholy roar erupted from the heart of him. That insufferable girl must have cut the backpack off as well!

So now Nwaba had two choices, and he hated them both equally: He could either spend himself fruitlessly searching for the wretched backpack, the Bloodstone, and that other valuable cargo— which by now had certainly been swallowed up by the sea—or he could return to his stronghold and attempt to mend and regroup. He could then return with fresh troops, specialized men and Brothers who could retrieve the object of desire from the bosom of the perilous deep.

He called his captains to him and issued new orders: “Pluck them from the sea. And bring them to me.”

Cape Town, South Africa, present day

Mr. Emmanuel sat at the top of the world and clutched his side. This was not good. And it would ruin a perfectly good shirt. Though his laundress could certainly get bloodstains out, it wasn’t practical to introduce the problem in the first place. Too many questions would be asked, he would become quickly bored with it and then certainly have to kill her, and then he would have to go to the trouble and inconvenience to find a new laundress. And he particularly liked how she turned out his shirts.

Exasperated, he stripped it off.

The master must be suffering. And he will arrive soon, no doubt. Mr. Emmanuel sighed and employed the wasted shirt as a bandage, slowing the flow of the blood. It would do for now.

He walked through his fiftieth floor penthouse toward the gymnasium. This would sting a bit, but the life was in the blood and he didn’t want to go ‘round losing too much of it. Whatever had happened, it was big. The gash was about a foot long, spanning the distance from just under his right pectoralis down one side to just above his pelvis. The inner flesh of all the ribs on that side had been exposed.

In a cabinet in the gymnasium, there were various medical supplies. There were also cans containing an aerosol liquid that he hadn’t quite yet taken public. It was too good for that just yet.

He sprayed it over his wound, the edges drew closed, and the bleeding stopped. It did leave a scar, and it certainly hurt a lot, but it repaired the damage.

The mind was powerful, so much so that the connection between demon and brother would bring about real enough wounds if one or the other were injured. It was psychical, spiritual, so powerful that it crossed with ease into the natural. But Mr. Emmanuel fancied himself a god, and gods were eternal beings. He was in control of his own mind. Even if his demon died—the one for whom he played host—he would yet live. Besides, the Bloodstone was calling Nwaba onward now, and once they possessed it together the rules could change. Possibly in my favor; but he dared not think such things out loud yet.

For now the only change he needed was in regard to his shirt.

He slid the old one down the chute to the incinerator.

False Bay, South Africa, present day

I heard shouting in the wet dark, but it came and went and was distant. The waves were relentless and unpredictable, crashing in on us, entangling us in the lines of our chute,